


The worst filth he could ever speak

by ishime



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Evil Plans, Gen, Humor, It's all about Quidditch, M/M, Oliver's life is suffering, Quidditch, Rivalry, Sexual Humor, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Swearing, slytherin quidditch team - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2794940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishime/pseuds/ishime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terrence is never trusting a shabby dark-magic book from Borgin and Burkes again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The worst filth he could ever speak

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my [Advent Calendar fic meme at my livejournal](http://ishime.livejournal.com/110499.html).  
> For [petite_laitue](http://petite-laitue.livejournal.com/).

Marcus Flint is an evil, evil bastard.   
It wasn't enough for him to cheat every match at every corner, so much that he gets away with most of it, he has to foment plots, slytherin plots to ruin Oliver's life and deprive him of vital information for his strategies! He's a bloody menace, and curse McGonagall for not listening when Oliver tried to explain why he absolutely needs that snake to be in detention tonight. She even threatened to give the detention to Oliver if he didn't leave! Two weeks before a match! Snape never hesitates to put Oliver in detention at a time most suspiciously convenient for the slytherin team.   
  
Of course, when it's his own captain insulting Oliver during his class or "forgetting" an ingredient three times in a row, just so he can elbow Oliver in passing, Snape is blind as a bat. And it's not Oliver's fault, alright, there's only so much a bloke can take. Having bubotuber pus "dropped" on his arm was the last straw. He punched Flint. Well he tried to - the git expected it, and turned away fast enough that Oliver's fist ended on his shoulder instead of his nose. Flint's mitts didn't miss his chin, but who cared? Certainly not Snape. Twenty points and two detentions the next week - and not even a word of reproach to Flint.   
  
There should be laws against trolls playing Quidditch.   
Or just a law against all slytherins, period.   
  
  
  
  
The thing is, Marcus sucks at waking up early.   
It's not that he doesn't want to - it would feel sweet to go and stall the pitch in the mornings, especially when the Gryffindork has booked it -  he's just not a morning person. He can work long hours, he practices as late as he can every night, he does his homework between eleven and two in the common room and he never has any problems staying up for astronomy, but waking up before nine is hell. Ter and Hyperbole have to drag him to the shower, and get him under ice cold water, just so he's aware enough to stumble on his own. He stays confused and groggy for hours, and is incapable of any articulate speech until at least ten.   
  
Wood, the bastard, is the chirpiest morning asshole ever.   
  
Which makes getting to the Quidditch mags before the dork a little bit challenging.   
Mostly, it's a matter of planning things through. The usual tactics don't work here - while Snape is always happy to provide detention to anything Gryffindor, he refuses to deal with red and gold earlier than nine. (Half-hearted wanker. Marcus deals with Wood every bloody morning the idiot decides to lecture him about "filthy tactics" and "insults to the noble sport".) And trying to play any prank while half-asleep is the perfect recipe for disaster. Marcus learned it from experience - painful, humiliating experience.   
So, planning.   
Screw Wood and his insinuations, Marcus is pretty damn good at this. Successful, unpunished cheating doesn't just fall from the sky. He can, and has, devised dozens of countermeasures to Wood's unnatural abomination of an advantage. Enough to fill a bloody notebook, even. All he has to do is pick which ones, and in which order.   
  
This week's plan actually has an innovation, though, courtesy of Hyperbole's bout of inspiration during their last divination class, and of Ter and Adrian's gracious (chocolate-bought) cooperation. Oh, there are still a few other steps left - distractions or back-up precautions, whichever works. Marcus isn't picky.   
He licks his lips, flips the pages of his notebook to today's plans. Just a quick check, so he doesn't forget anything in the afterglow of their brilliant collective effort.   
  
_Diner: threaten a puff into putting a pitch of pumpkin juice dosed with a sleeping potion on the gryffindor table, near Wood's usual seat._  
 _Evening: wait for the Bloody Baron, then bribe him into threatening Peeves so the poltergeist ambushes the Gryffindor dorm entrance until their Quidditch captain comes out tomorrow. (The more Gryffindorks get caught in the crossfire, the better.)_  
 _Night: sneak out to the Great Hall to pour magical glue on Wood's usual seat. And under the table in front of the seat. And on the ground under the seat. Repeat on the next two seats on the right, on the left and in front. Three layers of glue everywhere, just to be sure._   
  
_Next morning: sleep the fuck on until eleven, then go to the common room to get all five magazines from Nott._   
  
Marcus smiles, picks up his quill, and adds:   
  
_Rest of day: laugh at Wood's stupid crestfallen face, and enjoy reading Keepers Around the World right under his nose._   
  
It's a damn brilliant plan, Marcus thinks. Wood won't even know what hit him. Ha!  
  
  
  
  
  
Oliver's chin has turned crimson and purple, and it hurts like hell every time he opens his mouth.   
He refuses to let it stop him from calling Flint the filthiest names he knows. That broom-sucking, bloody stupid piece of gnome shit, ugly as a couple of fornicating flobberworms and dumber than a hoard of trolls, his own mother must run screaming every time she sees his hideous mug, what with those ghoulish teeth. He's - he's right there with the firecrabs, top of the list of things everybody in the world hates. Except for Snape, of course. Bloody Snape and his greasy nose and his slimy hair and his disgusting favoritism and-    
  
Thank Merlin for free time before lunch.   
Oliver flies around the park, kicks treetops and imagines they're the stupid mugs of the slytherin players. Not the most productive training, exactly, but he needs to vent. He throws stones in the lake and wishes he could tie Marcus Flint's ugly neck to them. Bloody snakes, always, always cheating. Life is so unfair.   
He comes back to the castle just on time for diner, boots dripping mud and no homework done, but with his peace of mind restored. He won't let the troll ruin his concentration. Flint provoked him on purpose, to lower his guard, before the real fight begins. Well Oliver won't fall for it! There is too much at stake tomorrow!  
  
He rushes to the great hall and slides effortlessly between Percy and Sandra Peakes. Diner is mutton stew, with carrots and potatoes and no beans. He grabs the casserole and stuffs his plate as much as he can. This is a great omen, he decides - no slytherin will be a match for him once he's filled his stomach with solid good food.   
He sees the perfidious little first year come a mile away.   
The sleeping potion disguised as pumpkin juice is such an old trick, he's almost disappointed. He must admit, though, that debauching a hufflepuff is a nice touch. It might have worked. (It did, the first two or three times.) Oliver grabs the pitch and passes it towards the twins, in case those two plan on adding a few trials of their own to his quest tomorrow. Two birds, one stone, Oliver has always been a brilliant strategist. He sends his smuggest smile to Flint, and bites back a laugh when the dumb troll flips him off.   
  
Diner goes on without any owl delivering explosive packages, and no slytherin first years sneak under the gryffindor table to steal his left shoe. Oliver keeps his guard up until his very last spoonful of ice cream, only to discover Flint gone, and no slytherin traps whatsoever. So totally disappointed. Flint must be loosing his touch in his old age.   
  
"Can we go now?" Percy asks him, in his prissiest tone. "I have homework, and I'm doing rounds tonight."  
  
Oliver shrugs, and starts the walk back to the dorm, pushing Percy in front of him.   
  
  
  
  
Morgana's tits does the Baron drive a hard bargain.   
Marcus runs out of the alcove where he cornered the blasted ghost, glaring at his watch and fighting the urge to scream. He's one hour and a half late. And he has no idea where the hell he's supposed to find someone to cook frogs and snails, let alone someone up to the Baron's standards for "finest French cuisine". And he was supposed to meet Adrian at eleven, and there's just no way he waited, Pussy-boy may be a total girl but he's still a slytherin. Damnit he should never have left him to watch over all of their glue.   
  
He jumps down the stairs and tries to remember which bed Adrian took in the fourth year dorm room. He will wake up the whole bunch of them, if he has to, but he'd rather not deal with Montague and Warrington tonight. If there was a cup for wasting other people's time, those two would actually beat the gryffindorks.   
He's so busy panicking that he almost trample over Adrian, curled by the fireplace, the cauldron of glue tucked safely between his legs.   
  
He stares at him for a whole minute. He knew Pussy was a good boy, but to wait longer than an hour, just to help him in his little pissing contest with Wood - merlin, he could almost kiss him.   
  
"Hey, wake up," he hisses, nudging Adrian with his boot. He shuffles nervously while his chaser moans and blinks, sickeningly cute with his tousled hair and reddened cheek.   
"Th' Baron was hiding fuck-knows-where in the dungeons," Marcus grumbles, and he tries not to notice Adrian batting eyelashes at him, "must've spent an hour just looking for him, merlin my feet are killing me, and then when I finally caught his fat white ass he kept haggling like a bloody goblin, I swear-"  
Adrian hums and smiles, all soft and half-asleep. Marcus bravely resists the urge to punch him.   
"Anyway. Hem. Got your cloak? Good. Pick up the glue, we gotta rush to get there before Filch plants his sodding cat in the hall for the night." He holds out a hand to help Adrian stand up, lets him grab the cauldron's handle and tries not to overthink it when he pulls the hood over the boy's baby face. "Thanks for waiting, Pussy-boots. Appreciate it."   
Adrian looks up and smiles again, eager and happy and definitely awake this time. Marcus makes a half-hearted attempt at a scowl, before shrugging it off. The cutesy act is only a problem if it's in public, and Adrian will outgrow this shit soon enough anyway. Marcus grabs his own cloak on a nearby chair, pulls his hood and removes his shoes before striding out of the dungeons, careful not to look in Adrian's direction.   
  
He slips into the shadows with practiced ease. He hears Adrian follow, catching breath and soft padding sounds on the corridor's carpets. Marcus spares him a glance, sees him barefoot, clutching the cauldron against his chest, and nods approvingly.   
"Now let's give Wood a lesson that will stick to his tiny gryffindor brain," Marcus drawls.   
Adrian nods, with a good hint of teeth in his smile and a cruel glint in his eyes. Marcus chuckles, and they hurry towards the great hall.   
  
  
  
  
Oliver wakes up an hour earlier that morning.   
He runs to the window to check the weather conditions, before throwing his lighter quidditch gear in his bag. Clear sky today, and his temperature ball is yellow for lukewarm. He grabs his broom from under his bed and rushes out, oblivious to his roommates' groans and curses and Percy's indignant "It's four in the morning, Oliver!" He must finish his personal practice early today. He avoided all traps and even removed the twin threats against his plans. Vital information is at stake!  
  
And then someone croons his name, shrill cackling fills the hallway, and his broom is torn out of his hands.   
  
Oliver gasps in horror. Peeves was waiting behind the Fat Lady's painting. Waiting specifically for him.   
No way, he thinks, again and again, stuck in a nightmarish loop. Flint can't have recruited Peeves, that's - that's not even cheating anymore, it's just - that backstabbing dark arts loving piece of - even the teachers can't make Peeves listen! The poltergeist isn't afraid of anything, except - except the Bloody Baron. Oliver bites back a scream.    
  
Peeves spins and twirls one last time, before tipping his hat to Oliver and flying down the hallway, broom in tow.   
Oliver runs after him.   
  
  
  
  
Oliver can now attest that catching poltergeists is harder than catching a bloody snitch.   
It takes him three hours to get his broom back. Or more accurately, it takes three hours of him running, panting, hissing, jumping, falling on his face, cursing and firing hexes at Peeves before Peeves gets tired of their little game, shoves the broom inside the back of Oliver's robes and flees through a wall. Plus about ten minutes of squirming to get his most precious possession out of his bloody clothes.   
The broom is unharmed. At this point, Oliver could cry from the sheer relief of it.  
  
Or he could cry over his lost three hours of morning practice.   
  
The sun is well above the horizon now. With a distressed moan, Oliver starts stomping back towards the dorms. It's too late to train, he's drenched in sweat and if he tries to gain back some time by rushing to breakfast now, he might even catch a cold. No, he must resign himself to his fate. He will mourn that tragic loss later - preferably after he breaks Flint's nose.   
He all but crawls back up the stairs, and is faced with Percy Weasley's most serious displeased prefect face.   
  
"You cannot wake your entire dorm at four in the morning, Oliver," he  lectures, in his most nasal, pretentious voice.   
Oliver shrugs. Wonders if he can grab something in the kitchen and eat it in the library.   
"It goes against the rules," Percy insists, shaking his index at him. "No noise in the dorms between ten o'clock and seven o'clock. If you do it again, I will have to report you to professor MacGonagall."  
Oliver frowns.   
"You can't do that! We have a match in-" He notices Percy's glare, and gulps. "I mean, I'm sorry. Really sorry. Won't do it again."  
Percy clucks his tongue.   
"Of course you are. You say that every time, Oliver! You'll be in serious trouble if you keep this up. You could at least prepare your bag in advance."  
Oliver opens his mouth to answer that he has to adapt his gear to the exact conditions, and promptly closes it when Percy taps his foot. There's a long, awkward pause, during which Oliver carefully keeps his eyes on the ground and shifts his feet. The library will open soon, he needs to get his card and get there before any filthy snake can enter. This battle is crucial to the next game, damnit-  
Finally, Percy sighs.   
"This time is the last chance, Oliver. I won't grant you a pass next time. I will report you - it's my duty as prefect, you know?"  
  
"Yes Percy," Oliver says, wondering how he can get Flint unprepared enough to hurt him before being kicked to the ground.   
He doesn't point out that Percy says that every time, too.   
  
  
  
  
Oliver is the first student in the great hall for breakfast.   
He may have elbowed his way through a group of ravenclaw girls, who may or may not have called him a brute and a quidditch obsessed freak. He didn't exactly pay attention. He has to eat three meals a day to pack up muscle properly, and this morning he has to eat fast.   
  
He runs to the gryffindor table and falls on the first bench, the one usually reserved to first years. It's alright, the little ones will understand. They're not good enough to play yet, but they always make way for him and the rest of their house team when needed.   
Only then does he realize that the table is mostly empty.   
  
He gasps in horror. Takes a quick peek at the slytherin table, finds it much more filled than his own, and lets out a nervous laugh. No way. No way. He doesn't even have a bowl yet!  
He grinds his teeth and grabs a small bottle of pumpkin juice. He pours it inside the pitch of milk, paws around for cereals, but they're at the other end of the table, and he doesn't have the time - he grabs a loaf of bread instead. He has to stick it under his elbow to cut it in two, and he grumbles against small knifes and how damn unpractical they were when you need more than a puny slice.   
  
A few other gryffindors come to sit, led by Percy, and they make faces when they pass Oliver by. He doesn't give a pixie shit. The snakes are already eating, and they won't wait for those blasted elves to serve him before they go to the library on Flint's behalf. He tears one half of the loaf into smaller, more manageable parts, plunging them into the pastel orange mixture filling the pitch.   
  
"For merlin's sake, Oliver, you're disgusting," Angelina says, hurrying past him with Alicia and Katie.   
  
He grunts a hello before stuffing the first three dripping chunks of bread inside his mouth. They shake their heads and walk to their part of the table without answering him. And they dare complain that he doesn't care about his teammates' feelings!  
  
  
  
  
Oliver finished his breakfast in exactly five minutes. He timed himself.   
He quells his pride at this new record, though he still keeps the method in a corner of his mind. Might come in handy when Davies tries to outrun him to the pitch on Sunday mornings - Oliver always knew someone who could accept tutoring Flint for a few points had no moral standards whatsoever. He ignores the screams coming from his usual place at the gryffindor table, about someone being glued to their seat. It sounds like Percy's voice, and he's probably gonna lecture him again because running in the hallways is against the rules.   
As if the slytherins ever play by them.   
  
So Oliver runs out of the hall before anything green can get out. This time, all of Flint's plotting has been for naught. The little Hufflepuff only succeeded in getting rid of the Fred and George menace for Oliver, and Peeves failed to make him late enough - that'll teach the troll to trust a poltergeist! Now Oliver has a freshly cleaned schoolbag with a nice padded compartment specially reserved for the magazines, and there's no way madam Pince can refuse him. His shoes screech when he halts in front of the library doors. He rubs his hands on his pants to remove any sweat, just in case.   
  
He checks his watch. Twenty nine past eight. He twists his fingers and watches the hallway for any incoming horde of slytherins.   
At precisely thirty minutes past eight, the library doors open. Still no green and silver in sight. Oliver lets a long breath out, tidies his clothes. Checks his shoes for mud or any sort of dirt. Opens his bag to make sure nobody slipped any food inside. Picks his wand and searches his pockets for dungbombs.   
He laughs a little - he always knew Flint was a lazy stupid incompetent wanker - and enters the library.   
  
The doors make a weird noise, but he's a bit busy thinking about Quidditch Monthly's special on prospective players for the English team, and the interview of Joseph Wronski announced in the last number of Golden Rush, and the next part of Keepers Around the World's series on new protective gear and-  
The strap of his bag tightens around him.   
He stops, a few steps away from Madam Pince's desk, puts a hand on the buckle to readjust it, and sees the flap of his bag open, wrinkle and fold into a strange, almost mouth-like shape-  
  
And then his bag starts to scream.   
  
  
  
  
Theodore swears with every step he takes toward the library. It's kind of difficult, coming up with a new one each time, but his brains are up to the task. Contrary to certain quidditch players. Besides, Flint and Wood both deserve the insults. Especially Wood. Why did the asshat gryffindork have to borrow all the quidditch magazines and hog them for two full weeks every time? As much as Theodore hates Flint for dragging him into this mess, he can understand why his house captain felt obliged to retaliate.   
Still. Flint is a stinking giant firecrab dung for kicking Theodore into bringing him those blasted magazines, when everyone knows Higgs will come by to see the result of whatever dark spell they dug up this time, and Pucey or either Bole would happily run any errands he wants.   
"It'll help you integrate into your bloody house, pipsqueak," yeah right.   
  
He notices a shadow moving strangely in the alcove near the library door. "Your disillusionment charms suck, Higgs," he hisses, and rushes inside to avoid another quidditch boot to his backside.   
The screeching voice catches him by surprise; he stumbles, almost falls on the carpet in his attempts to cover his ears.   
  
"STUPID BERK FLINT, DOESN'T EVEN BOTHER TO COME AND RACE ME HIMSELF ANYMORE. HE JUST LAYS HIS DIRTY TRAPS AND SENDS FIRST YEARS AND - AT LEAST WHEN HE SHOWED UP TO BEAT ME I GOT TO WATCH HIS BED HAIR."  
Theodore stares. So does Madam Pince.   
Wood makes ridiculous frantic attempts to get rid of his bag, all in vain of course, since the idiot uses his bare hands instead of his wand.   
"DAMNIT I MISS HIS SLEEPY MUG AND THE GRUNTING, OH MERLIN THE GRUNTING WAS SO HOT, EVEN WHEN HE INSULTED ME. ESPECIALLY WHEN HE INSULTED ME."  
If Wood gets any redder, he'll explode. And then Madam Pince will get mad, because there will be a permanent red mess in her library, and Theodore will have to come back to the dungeons empty-handed, and his poor butt doesn't deserve to be at the end of Flint's anger.   
"THE BLOODY SNAKE HAS SUCH A FILTHY TONGUE, I BET HE'D GIVE FANTASTIC HEAD."   
Wood goes from purple to livid. His mouth opens and he makes some kind of pathetic whine in the direction of Madam Pince. She just glares at him.   
Out of the corner of his eye, Theodore sees four heads popping against the door.   
"AND WHEN HE IS ON HIS BROOM, OH MERLIN IF I COULD MAKE HIM RIDE ME LIKE THAT!"  
Wood runs out of the library, so fast Theodore is thrown of balance and lands right on his poor, sore butt.   
Still not fast enough to prevent the bag from screaming one last time.   
"AND HE HAS SUCH A GREAT ASS, IT'S SO BLOODY UNFAIR, I BET IT'S THE TIGHTEST EVER, OH I COULD FUCK THAT ASS FOR DAYS-"  
  
Theodore spares a quick glance to the entrance. Higgs and Lucian Bole are rolling on the floor, cackling hysterically, Hyperion Bole is rambling about a nefarious gryffindor plot to defile their players and steal the house cup, and Pucey looks furious enough to chew a firecrab and spit skewers.   
Theodore calmly walks to the library desks and checks out all the magazines Flint asked for, plus a book on Transfiguration tips for his homework. Then he leaves in a proper and dignified way, and leaves his seniors to face Madam Pince's wrath.   
  
  
  
  
Oliver misses his History of Magic class. He doesn't show up for Herbology either.   
As soon as the bell rings the end of the morning classes, Percy stomps back to the dorms, promising himself to give Oliver the longest, sternest lecture of his entire life, and to drag the idiot to professor MacGonagall's desk by the ears afterwards. Prefect or no, there is a limit to how much stupidity a man can take.   
  
All his resolutions fly out the window when he reaches the dorm. Oliver's wails of distress can be heard through the whole tower.   
The first years crowd Percy, speaking all at once; he makes out the words "captain" "came sprinting" and "since this morning" and he heaves a deep, long sigh. He reassures the little ones as best as he can, and climbs up the stairs to his dorm.   
  
Katie and Angelina are already here, talking in soft, cajoling tones to the bathroom door. They look disgustingly relieved to see Percy. He nods at them, enters the bathroom, closes and spell the door behind him.   
He cuts the water - thank merlin it can't turn cold inside the castle - and gives Oliver a tentative hug.   
"Come on Oliver, stop yelling and tell me what happened."  
  
He's gonna kill Flint. Slowly. With a spoon.   
It won't even be against the rules. Trolls are just nuisances anyway.   
  
  
  
  
When Terrence steps inside the common room, everyone from first to sixth year sends him horrified looks before scattering as quickly as they can.   
Crap, he thinks, before someone grabs his scarf and pulls.   
  
He chokes and spats for a few seconds, until he recognizes his attacker.   
"Hello Terrence," Marcus purrs, and Terrence swears he sees his eyes glow, like the serpent statues on the walls of their dorm. "Guess what I heard when I woke up this morning?"  
Terrence gulps.   
"Little Nott comes back with my mags and a really funny story 'bout that spell you got- what didcha say, again? Mastered so perfectly you could do that shite in th' dark with your hands tied and that bint o' yours sucking you blind?"  
Marcus' other hand falls on Terrence's shoulder, dangerously close to his neck.   
"So 'magine how surprised I was when I found out th' spell that should a' screamed a few curse words had screamed 'bout Wood makin' me his bitch instead."   
Terrence squirms out of Marcus' grasp, abandoning his scarf and quite some hair in the process.   
  
"Come on, Marc," he says, "the spell worked fine. How was I supposed to know 'the worst filth they could ever speak' was a shitty euphemism for his wet drea-"  
He makes eye contact and his words die in his throat.   
"Say your sodding prayers, Higgs," Marcus roars, and he grabs the nearest chair to throw it at Terrence.   
  
Terrence is never trusting a shabby dark-magic book from Borgin and Burkes again. 


End file.
